My style is a mess
And I’m trying to understand why
It’s 1997 and I’m heading to Meadowhall to meet my two best friends for a late afternoon shopping spree.
We love to shop. Whether it’s Barnsley, Meadowhall, Leeds, Manchester occasionally, Birmingham for The Clothes Show Live, or London for a treat, shopping is our favourite pastime. If it was a sport, we’d win Olympic medals.
When we’re not shopping, we talk about clothes and what we’ll wear for this night out and that night out. We earn our money waiting tables at our local Toby Carvery and spend most of it, possibly all of it, on new outfits.
We know what shops and styles we like and, thanks to the tips from generous customers at the carvery, we have the cash to splash out. Still living at home, we don’t have to worry about mortgages or paying bills because that’s what parents are for. Within a few months, we’ve spent enough money buying dresses from Richie’s, a trendy boutique in Barnsley, that we’ve qualified for a gold card, giving us ten percent off for life.
For life!
This, we think, is what success looks like.
We don’t plan beyond the next night out or the next shop. We’re all students at Barnsley College, studying for our A-levels, but, in my case at least, I schedule my studies around socialising and shopping. I have my priorities right.
Tonight’s shop is a midweek low-key affair, meeting in Morgan in House of Fraser. As I’m early, I wander around the store, looking at the new arrivals, including some trousers—the tight, low rise, bootcut variety.
It’s in the trouser section that I notice a woman pushing a pram. She moves from rail to rail, picking up clothes, holding them up in front of herself, putting them back. Her cheeks are flushed pink, and she has a blank, confused look on her face.
I catch her eye and smile.
‘Is this what everyone wears now?’ she asks, holding up a pair of the bootcuts.
I nod.
‘And is everything one-size?’ she asks.
Fancying myself as a Morgan shop assistant, I go over to help. Together we select a few pairs of trousers and a top, and she’s so grateful, thanking me over and over.
‘I’ve not been shopping for a while.’ She points towards the pram, where the baby is sleeping. ‘I’m really out of touch.’
She thanks me again and disappears into the changing room. When she emerges, a few minutes later, her face is red, and sweat patches are seeping through the underarms of her T-shirt. She shakes her head. ‘They’re not for me. I couldn’t get them over my knees!’
She fumbles with the clothes and hangers, gives up trying to hang them and instead drapes them over the rail. ‘This is not a shop for me. It’s okay for your age, but I’m older and… getting used to a new body shape.’
I don’t know what to say to this, so I just smile, as though I understand, when at 17, I really don’t.
She pushes the pram towards the door at a sprint-like pace.
I watch her leave—sorry that she feels this way, sorry that the choice of clothes and sizes are so limited and just really sorry for her. As well as not knowing what to wear, she was confused, anxious and so unsure of herself.
Imagine getting to the point where you are clueless about clothes. Imagine that.
Is this what happens when you get old I wonder? Will that happen to me?
Immediately, I push that thought from my head. No way. I wouldn’t let it.
Fast forward 28-years and I follow my sister and 12-year-old niece into Bershka, a new store that’s just opened in Meadowhall. It is very much like stepping into another world. Music blares out. Screens dotted around the store fight for my attention. I wander around, picking up jeans and sweatshirts, baggy T-shirts, and even hot pants, and put them all back on the rail, especially the hot pants. If I was on the lookout for a pair, I’d prefer mine with a bit more cheek coverage.
‘Is this what everyone’s wearing now?’ I ask, and my niece rolls her eyes.
On I go, picking things up, putting them back, trying to seem interested and trendy, but unable to imagine myself wearing any of the pieces. Even if I found something, I’d have no idea what to style it with. At 45, my fashion sense has deserted me.
In a store that prides itself on being the brand for young people, I am all too aware of my age. A quick glance around and I realise I’m probably the oldest person here.
‘I do not belong in this shop,’ I tell my niece and sister. ‘I’ll wait outside.’
I stand on the concourse, looking in, watching the young people select clothes with ease and confidence. My mind goes back to the woman in Morgan all those years ago. I didn’t think I would ever lose my fashion sense or be so unsure of myself, yet here I am.
It may have happened at different stages of life—pregnancy for her, perimenopause for me—but we both found ourselves with changing bodies and perspectives, lost in the chaos of a clothes store.
I wonder what the 17-year-old me would have thought if she’d been able to see me now—hovering by the door, unable to even face a shop.
Shocked and appalled.
Back then, fashion was so important to me. I knew my style. I was confident about clothes and enjoyed shopping. Now, I have no style and no idea—just the thought of a trip to Meadowhall brings on palpitations and hot sweats (although that might be my age).
How did I get here?
Life, of course, and loss. One of my friends—one of the two best friends I shopped with as a teenager—died tragically a few years ago. After that, fashion for me faded into insignificance. When it comes to life and death, clothes really don’t matter.
Except, I’m starting to think they do. There’s a saying, you are what you wear. Do our outfits reflect who we are and how we show up in the world? By not prioritising how I look, have I inadvertently given up on myself?
My style crisis is not just about the panic over what to wear and what to wear it with. It goes deeper than that. I’m getting older, trying to come to terms with a changing body, and I just don’t know who I am anymore. My sense of self has been slowly slipping away without me realising, and I’m not sure how to get it back. But I want to try.
By the time my sister and niece leave Bershka, carrying bags full of new purchases, I’ve decided it’s time to regain my style. No more accepting that I’m past it. No more excuses or jokes about how hopeless I am at dressing myself. It is time to make a change. The younger me would approve.
To be continued…
Is it just me? What’s your experience? Any advice? I’d love to hear.
Thank you for reading my work. If you enjoyed this piece, please hit the heart button below. It helps me reach new readers so that it’s not just you, my mum and Auntie Karen reading it. Thanks so much. Liz xx
I’ve never been a dedicated follower of fashion, and I do understand that clothes can change what others think of you. I try to be interested when thinking about work clothes or party outfits but I struggle more with how clothes can affect your self-worth. I know nice clothes will make you feel good but turning that into action when I can access a pair of scruffy trousers and an ill-fitting T-shirt.
I’m sorry to hear about your friend. It hits so hard when someone you thought that would be around forever is taken from us xx
I’m sorry about your friend Liz. I lost a friend of 40 yrs last year and it’s made me determined to make the most of my life, including getting on with the writing. Fashion has always been a trial for me, at five foot and barely an inch, clothes have never fit. I can count on one hand the outfits that made me feel good as a teen/young adult, and remember them distinctly. The advantage of age is not feeling the need to follow trends but accepting my body and wearing what I like, what fits and most importantly, what’s comfortable. I don’t mean slouchy (although they have their place) just not digging into flesh in places you’d rather it didn’t!